RIDING THE CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE SPECIAL

by TJ Johnston/PNN

Last Friday, March 21, a parade of protesters against the war marched by me at the United Nations Plaza. Having joined similar processions since the bombing of Iraq, I decided not to let this parade pass me. By this time we walked past City Hall, our parade ran into a moving, riot-geared detour.

Near Grove and Gough, one of the marchers called out for us to turn back to Franklin: SFPD and Highway Patrol were cutting us off. We did so, but as I made it to the sidewalk, the blue centipede surrounded us. I figured it would be at least a late night for me, assuming I would be released hours later. It was already 6pm and I wondered if I would be able to walk the dogs that night.

The stretch of Franklin cordoned off included the San Francisco Opera. Outside a venue that sees heightened theatrics, the unfolding events carried an unexpected mundanity. A bullhorned officer announced that all 200 of us were under arrest: the charges were going to be blocking traffic and failing to obey a dispersal order. Funny thing was, most of us were on the sidewalk and we never received such an order. The cops knew as much.

The cops' faces at once displayed resentment and boredom. We whiled the next couple of hours, talking, singing, playing music and chanting for the cops to let us go (one implored our release "in the name of Jesus").

Not only was my timing bad, my ill fashion sense was sure to implicate me as I wore Bloc Black. I fished a card printed by the ACLU out of my pocket. The card included tips on how to comport yourself in a detention/arrest situation. There was a Middle Eastern looking woman beside me. I asked if it was OK to read it aloud, as it might actually be helpful.

The converted school buses weren't enough to carry us: double-length MUNI vehicles were also required to transport us. We were patted down and Polaroided. Our belongings were tagged. Plastic handcuffs bound us.

I wondered what the Hall of Justice at 850 Bryant would be like. As it turned out, we were being herded to a detention facility on Pier 27. On the Civil Disobedience Special, female arrestees were placed in front of the bus, males in back. I hadn't experienced this gender segregation since elementary school. Cheers greeted our departure.

We hit the Embarcadero around 9:30pm. The makeshift holding facility reminded me of an air hangar or the set of a Jerry Bruckheimer production sans aesthetic value. We were corralled behind iron partitions. The cops seeked for individuals with the Polaroids as their guides. I was struck by the absurdity of giving my tame so they could tag my stuff: didn't they think of writing it on the photo, too?

Corrals were set up on opposite sides. Those waiting to be called for processing and those being processed (meaning the cops were running a check on them). I weighed the balance of giving them my ID or going "John Doe." If I gave them my driver's license (not that it's required here), the paperwork would be speedier as I have no priors. Not volunteering my name meant a lost weekend in custody. As my cuffs were cut, I told a cop I was carrying my ID in my wallet and presented him my license. I was escorted to the opposite corral for more "hurry up and wait."

There we waited for our names to be called. A small group ran a pool. Each person chipped in a dollar. The last person released was supposed to win the pot. I had nothing to contribute, so I wasn't interested in the outcome. Waiting to hear my name, yet another constable announced that if they catch us protesting again in the next 48 hours, they wouldn't cite us but throw us in jail. We collectively groaned at this blatant intimidation tactic. We were already there for constitutionally protected activity and they compounded it with bogus charges.

I strategized about not getting caught next time, or at least joining an affinity group (as most of my fellow detainees were). Then my name was announced. Just like "The Price Is Right," I came on down. I left the pen, went to a table at the back where my citation and ID waited. The slip contained the vital stats from my license; the numeric designations of my charge, name and badge of arresting officer (for the record, Officer Baretti 175) and my court date (about five weeks from now). I signed it, gathered my stuff and exited. I didn't feel defiant or triumphant as those who left to cheers. I was more annoyed for forfeiting an evening for a glorified traffic ticket.

I spotted an assembly of the newly sprung. Some people from the National Lawyers Guild handed out paperwork I desired. With a fresh citation as my guide, I copied the information and my contact info. In exchange, they gave us their number and that of the County to check the status of our case. By then, they heard enough particulars of this mass arrest to expect charges to be dropped (as well as a class action to be filed).

A pizza was brought and I scarfed a slice before the pie disappeared. Dinner provided small comfort, less than not having to pee the entire time. Like a fool, I asked if anyone was going to my 'hood and expected an affirmative. That meant another bus. Still, I walked away from the ferries and into midnight.